Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  Once I start driving, the nicotine rush dissipates and suddenly I’m on the verge of tears. I drive on, looking for a place to stop. But the streets are busy, there are people everywhere, and the only place I can think of that would give me some solace is the Heath. On autopilot I drive towards it and find a parking space off Highgate Road. I remember I’m in my work clothes and shoes, which are not the best walking gear, but I don’t care. A path I choose without thinking takes me to the top of Parliament Hill. It’s a crisp, windy day, and the clouds are swiftly moving above the city skyline. I take in the view framed by the autumnal trees, stretching from the Gherkin on the left up to the BT Tower on the right. It normally makes my heart sing, overwhelms with the beauty of this mad, sprawling city. But today all I can think of are the people in office buildings everywhere, as far as I can see. Together they create this tight, humming network of workforce: striving, achieving, winning, losing, always in a rush, forever on a treadmill. As I take the view in I slowly begin to comprehend that the network has spat me out; I’m a small cog that has broken off, useless, discarded. Where is the fight in me, what’s happened to my usual resilience? I hope it’ll come back, but at the moment I feel defeated.

  I rummage through my bag, find my phone and speed-dial Bell’s number. It is only when I get the ‘disconnected’ message I realize what I’ve done. Fighting back the tears, I put the phone back in my bag. I miss you Bell, more than ever before.

  A tiny Chinese tourist, dressed in colourful woollen clothes, asks me to take a picture of her with her camera. I oblige her and can tell she’s dying to have a chat.

  ‘You dressing like business, you no work?’ she asks me.

  ‘No, I don’t work,’ I tell her, the first person to learn of my new employment status.

  ‘You come here a lot?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  She looks at me with her smiling, sparkling eyes. Then the smile is gone.

  ‘You alone in the soul,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ I reply, taken aback.

  ‘London dark place.’ She puts her two tiny fists together. ‘People push, people fight. But this place good for soul. Let the light in your soul and you see harmony.’ The smile is back. She puts the camera in her bag, pats my arm and turns round. I watch her walking away, a small colourful dot against the greying landscape. Perhaps she’s right, but even the Heath is not giving me any light for my soul today. I look around, searching for Wispa, then remember where she is. Please, please, let her be all right. I need her.

  By the time I walk back to my car I’m frozen to the bone. I turn the heating on full blast and drive home, shivering. My street seems to be packed with cars and I keep driving around until I get tired of hunting for a parking spot and dump my car on Highgate Hill. I walk up the hill, huddled against the wind, and when I get to my house I see a man standing in front of my door. My heart instantly begins to pound. I’m ready to scream for help when he turns towards me and I see a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands.

  ‘Ms Wright?’ he asks and smiles with relief when I nod. ‘Flower delivery from Liberty’s.’

  I take the bouquet from him and unlock the door. The flowers are stunning, a mixture of purple hydrangeas, lilac roses, blood-red dahlias and purple clematis. The letters on a silver ribbon tying them together say ‘Wild at Heart’. I pull out a small envelope tucked in-between the flowers. ‘Wishing you all the best, Julian,’ it says. I put the note back in its envelope, take the flowers to my rubbish bin outside and dump them, heads down. I slam the front door, go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of Aberlour whisky. I’m shaking, not from the cold, but anger. How dare he, that evil cyborg of a man, invade my private distress? With a few more gulps of Aberlour my anger subsides. It’s being replaced by a new feeling, of determination. I’m not going down without a fight.

  I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. I stop at Sue’s number and dial. She picks up almost immediately.

  ‘Sue, am I interrupting anything?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Olive’s got a bit of a cold and I’m working from home. What’s up?’

  ‘I need the best redundancy lawyer in town.’

  There is a long silence in which I can hear distant TV in the background.

  ‘You’ve been made redundant? When?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Shit. Haven’t they given you any notice?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘When is your last day?’

  ‘Today, I think . . .’

  ‘They’ve put you on gardening leave straight away? That’s hard core.’

  I say nothing as my anger subsides and is replaced by feeling sorry for myself. Sue picks up on my change of mood.

  ‘Don’t worry, old girl. Leave it with me. I’ll do some research and get back to you. Actually, do you want to pop over for dinner tonight? I don’t think Olive’s lurgy is contagious.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  We arrange I’ll come by at 7 p.m. and I put the phone down. What now? I look around my kitchen and am overwhelmed by the feeling of purposelessness. It’s as if all the urgent tasks that I’ve been putting off because of work have suddenly disappeared and there is absolutely nothing left to do. I don’t even have the energy to call any of my friends to let them know my news. What’s left? Wispa. I pick up the phone and dial the vet’s number. Good news. Wispa Wright is doing much better. The vet is optimistic. If she keeps improving I might be able to take her home in a day or two. I put the phone down. What now? Daytime TV. I go to the lounge and put the TV on. I skip a couple of game shows with miserable-looking people wearing name tags, watch a bit of tennis, am amused for a while by the silliness of NCIS, then stumble upon a rerun of seventies nostalgia galore, Kojak. Once the awesome baldy has managed to catch a psychotic killer in Manhattan, I go on channel hopping until I hit the news. It’s live coverage of a press conference. According to the helpful crawler at the bottom of the screen, the speaker, Commander Bob Rowland, is saluting the memory of Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Thomas. I turn up the volume.

  ‘The murder of a police officer is a particularly appalling crime. It strikes at the very core of our society. As police officers, it is our duty to protect, to catch criminals who go against everything we stand for. It’s a tough and dangerous job and we are fully aware of the risks we encounter on a daily basis. We know that some of us will have to pay the ultimate price. Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Thomas was a great leader, a respected and valued police officer, a devoted husband, loving father—’

  I grab the remote and switch the TV off just as a photograph of the Dior Man in his police uniform appears. I stare at the blank screen, stunned. Loving father. This is the bit DCI Jones withheld when I asked her about him, that’s why she despised me so much. He had a child, maybe children, who are now left without a father. An intense feeling of guilt and shame washes over me. I go to the kitchen and pour myself another glass of Aberlour. Then I sit at the kitchen table sipping the whisky, hating myself, waiting for the alcohol to dull my senses. My phone’s ringtone pulls me out of the stupor. It’s Sue, who launches into a monologue straight away.

  ‘Hon, I’ve found you the best redundancy lawyer in town. She helped Giles Welsh when he got booted out last year and on the strength of one letter from her they doubled his redundancy offer. Apparently she’s absolutely brilliant. Even the biggest corporate sharks are scared of her. I’ve called her already and she can see you tomorrow at ten a.m. This is really lucky, because she’s busy as hell. Hon, we’re going to kick their arses so hard they won’t be able to sit down for months. Here are her details, have you got a pen? Her name is Gillian Foster . . .’

  I make some noises as I look for something to write on.

  ‘Hon, you OK?’

  I muster all the energy to focus.

  ‘I’m fine, Sue, thank you so much for doing this.’

  ‘You’re still coming over tonight?’

&n
bsp; ‘Actually, I was just thinking that I should probably stay home and have an early night . . .’

  ‘You sure you want to be on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’ I try to sound as upbeat as I can. ‘I really need to absorb everything, get a full picture . . .’

  ‘Sure, I understand. But do call me if you change your mind.’

  She gives me the details of the lawyer, which I scribble on a piece of paper, and promises to ring me tomorrow morning. I switch the phone off and pour myself a glass of water from the tap. Sue’s call has sobered me up. The irony of what I’m doing doesn’t escape me. I had no qualms about making other people redundant, but here I am, screaming blue murder because the same thing is happening to me. Am I being just a tad hypocritical? Well, what goes around, comes around. It doesn’t mean I should take whatever comes lying down.

  Nineteen Days Later

  As promised, Sue wakes me up bright and early, with plenty of time to get ready for my 10 a.m. meeting in Tower Bridge.

  Ms Gillian Foster is in her late forties, looking striking with her short auburn hair and deep-red lipstick. Her green eyes are sharp and her handshake is strong. She invites me to her office straight away and her secretary, a tall transsexual with a deep voice and too much make-up, brings us a tray with a carafe of water and two glasses. Once the water’s been poured, she asks me to tell her in my own words what has happened. She listens to my somewhat chaotic story without interrupting, jotting a few things on an A4 pad. Then she puts her pen down.

  ‘Dealing with redundancy is at the same time hard and easy. The hard part is the emotional side of it, going through all the stages from the initial shock, through denial to anger. This is the part I won’t be able to help you with. It is very likely that your employer has included some “help package” in their redundancy offer, which would include counselling, help with readjusting, retraining. There are companies that specialize in this kind of help, offering even an office space with your own desk you can go to every day if you have problems with adjusting to the absence of work routine in your life.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t miss sitting at my desk every day.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how strongly we’ve been conditioned to be workhorses. If they offer you a help package my advice would be – use it. But it’s entirely up to you. The other part of dealing with redundancy, the easy one, is the legal side of it. This is where I come in, and that’s why I say it’s going to be easy. Before we go any further, let me ask you a question: do you want to be made redundant?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You have the right to appeal against your redundancy. You can try to contest it informally by offering for instance a change in your working conditions that might be attractive to your employer. Or you may feel you have grounds to dispute the redundancy decision and take your case to an employment tribunal. Again, it’s entirely up to you.’

  ‘Would I want to fight to stay on with the company that has sucked me dry and spat me out? My answer is: over my dead body. I want to take them to the cleaners and run with the money.’

  Ms Foster smiles for the first time and it’s the smile of a hungry shark.

  ‘Wonderful. Let’s make it happen, then.’

  I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude. It feels good to have a hungry shark on your side.

  ‘When making employees redundant, every company is legally obliged to follow strict procedures. I am going to make sure the process has been fair and unbiased, and that it is a genuine redundancy and not just a ploy to get rid of you.’

  I debate whether to tell her about having caught Julian and Gary on the couch and decide against it. Even if it was the real reason for Julian to get rid of me, I’m not prepared to stoop as low as him.

  Ms Foster moves on to a much nicer subject: compensation. She outlines the scope of my ‘exit pay’, as she calls it, including redundancy and notice pay.

  ‘Once we get your redundancy offer, I’m going to scour it for everything we can use to our advantage. We want enhanced pension, share payouts, extended medical insurance. Do you have a company car?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘But you do have a company mobile phone. And you’re going to keep it.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit petty?’

  ‘You’ll be surprised when you see how petty the other side can get. As your payout is likely to exceed the tax-free limit, instead of asking for a higher redundancy settlement, we’ll go for higher non-cash benefits. I’ll also ask you to consider signing a non-compete clause.’

  ‘Non-compete?’

  ‘In case you want to join the competition.’

  ‘The way I feel at the moment, I don’t want to work for television ever again. A landscape gardening course sounds tempting right now. Or perhaps I could open an art gallery.’ I can already see myself with a glass of champagne in my hand, entertaining exquisite guests at a private view.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t have to know about it. Offering to sign the clause, even for as little as six months, can double your exit package,’ she says with barely disguised glee. ‘It’s going to be so much fun, Anna.’

  Although a bit unnerving in a lawyer, I find her enthusiasm contagious. For the first time since my meeting with Julian I actually begin to feel my redundancy might not be such a bad thing after all.

  I leave Ms Gillian Foster’s office having agreed I’ll be in touch tomorrow, right after my meeting with HR, which she isn’t going to attend. I feel I’m in good hands. Gillian versus Julian, I think, it’s going to be an interesting game to watch.

  Instead of catching the tube home straight away, I head towards St Katharine Docks and stroll around the marina, looking at the luxury yachts moored there. I could probably get used to this kind of life of leisure. But then I remember my monthly mortgage repayments and feel a flutter of anxiety in my chest. I won’t be able to retire yet, no matter how good Ms Gillian Foster is.

  I’m considering an early lunch at the Dickens Inn when my phone rings. It’s DCI Jones, asking me if I could call at Kentish Town station to see her, preferably as soon as possible. I’m not overjoyed, feeling that my meetings with DCI Jones are becoming a touch too frequent. But as I have nothing better to do, I reluctantly agree. The tube journey is surprisingly smooth and I’m entering the station forty minutes later.

  DS Kapoor takes me straight to DCI Jones’s office. She looks official today, the fleece and jeans replaced by a black tailored suit with a pair of designer reading glasses perched on her nose. She acts official, too, when she asks me take a chair opposite her at her desk. DS Kapoor leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Anna. I do appreciate you making time for us at such short notice.’

  ‘Oh, I have lots of time at the moment,’ I say rather flippantly.

  ‘Really?’ She throws me a glance above her glasses.

  ‘I’ve been made redundant. As of yesterday.’ I take strange pleasure from telling her about the misfortune which has befallen me.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ She takes her glasses off. ‘Has it been on the cards for a while?’

  ‘No, it was completely unexpected.’

  ‘Gosh.’ She shakes her head. ‘I hope they’ll pay you off handsomely.’

  ‘I hope so, too.’

  ‘The reason I’ve asked you to come in today is that we’ve had an interesting development. I’m not entirely sure of its relevance, but I thought it was significant enough to discuss it with you.’

  She pauses and my heart begins to beat faster, even though I don’t know what to expect.

  ‘It transpires that Mr James Morgan, your ex-partner I believe –’ she looks at me for confirmation and I nod – ‘is not in South-East Asia as we’d previously assumed.’

  I wait for her to continue, not sure where she’s going with this.

  ‘According to the UK Border Agency there is no record of James Morgan leaving the country. There is also no record of him ev
er reaching South-East Asia. And yet his employer, as well as all his friends we’ve spoken to, are under the impression that that’s where he is. This appears to be a conjecture, as in fact no one has heard from him or seen him since he went on leave over a month ago. Have you had any contact with him since your break-up?’

  ‘No. Well, I spoke to him on the phone a few days after we’d split up, but nothing since then. What does it all mean?’

  ‘It means he’s disappeared,’ she sighs. ‘And we need to consider all the possible scenarios.’

  ‘Has something happened to him?’

  She smiles thinly. ‘There are plenty of possible explanations for his disappearance. Most of them entirely innocent. He could’ve changed his mind and decided to spend his career break in . . . Scotland, for instance. Or he could’ve hopped on the Eurostar using someone else’s ticket and is travelling in Europe as we speak.’

  ‘But you don’t know for sure?’

  ‘No. None of his debit or credit cards has been used since he disappeared. There was, however, a large withdrawal of cash from his account on the last day he was seen at work.’

  ‘That’s strange. He never uses cash. He relies totally on plastic, even for ridiculously small amounts.’

  ‘How did you two split up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was it amicable?’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘It was very civilized. We had dinner at Roka. He didn’t want us to break up. He said we were perfect for each other.’

  ‘So it was you who dumped him?’

  I raise my eyebrows, taken aback by her bluntness. But she goes on, unperturbed.

  ‘Would you say he took it well? Or badly?’

  ‘No.’ I feel irritated by her questions. ‘James doesn’t take anything badly. He’s quite unflappable. And he’s very sure of himself, with women, I mean. I might have caused a slight dent in his ego, but I’m sure he recovered pretty quickly. In fact, I know he’s dating someone else. Is this why you’ve asked me to come here? To discuss James’s state of mind?’

  ‘We have to consider the possibility he may have self-harmed . . .’